No One Picks On My Brothers But Me
by Keesha
Summary: When an uppity Comte gets out of line, the Musketeers teach him the meaning of brotherhood. For the "Fête des Mousquetaires" Brotherhood challenge.


_A/N: Ok, here's a lighter story for the 'Brotherhood' Fete des Mousquetaires Challenge. A little levity after the excellent heart-wrenching tales spun to date. There is a line in here that is a shout out to one of my other fandoms. I'm fairly confident one of you will recognize it._

* * *

The four musketeers received their assignment at the morning muster in the Garrison's courtyard. They were to serve as bodyguards for a particularly uppity and obnoxious Comte and his wife, who were visiting his Majesty. Over the course of the next three days, the musketeers had quietly watched as the loathsome Comte and his cow of a wife had insulted, degraded, mocked, and humiliated all the servants in the palace. The poor domestics could seem to do no right in the eyes of Comte and Comtesse and the hapless musketeers were silent witnesses to the degrading insults being heaped upon the innocent servants. There was little the four disgusted men could do to stop the Comte's bullying and it had become excruciatingly difficult for them to remain of neutral face, posture, and manner as they stood on guard duty..

In the presence of the King and Queen, the Comte and Comtesse were the model of aristocratic behavior, fawning and fussing over their highnesses, laughing at the King's awful jokes, flattering his appearance, and simpering at every anecdote that fell from the royal lips. The Musketeers had felt that the Queen was not so taken in by the Comte's brummagem behavior, but in deference to her husband had remained submissively taciturn.

While they had all been irritated and exasperated by the behaviors they had been forced to witness, it was Athos who seemed particularly agitated. Though he had lived a privileged life raised around servants, he had always treated them remotely but civilly, the way he dealt with most people. He had never seen any reason to look upon them as lesser human beings. Being forced to stand by and silently watch the Comte treat the servants like vermin was irksome to his sense of honor. Aramis had to surreptitiously place a restraining hand on his brother's arm, more than once, when he feared Athos might draw his sword and run the Comte through with its sharp tip. Aramis could tell by the dark storm clouds gathering in Athos' brooding, green eyes that it was only a matter of time before he wouldn't let himself be curtailed anymore, consequences be damned.

The Comte's fatal mistake occurred on the fourth day of his visit. Apparently, the Comte hadn't found enough faults with the servants in the morning to placate his foul mood. So later that afternoon he turned his sights on the ever present musketeers, who had been inconspicuously standing in the background, as they had done for the last four days. The composition of their group had remained the same since the first day of their assignment: Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan. On this sunny afternoon, they had been standing outside waiting to accompany the King and Comte on a hunt. The King, as usual, was late and everyone was forced to stand around, awaiting his arrival.

The Comte, being bored and miffed at having to wait on the whims of his fickle King, had moved to where the four musketeers stood in a line, holding their horses. The Comte, whose figure definitely cut a rotund shape, strutted in front of them as if he were an officer inspecting his troops. However, the illusion was spoiled by the fact that the Comte didn't so much march as waddle.

Aramis and Athos did a wonderful job of remaining serene and not betraying any of the improper thoughts they were harboring. Porthos and d'Artagnan had tried their best to imitate the posture of the other two musketeers. But lamentably, they couldn't quite hide the twinkle of mischief in their eyes as their thoughts strayed to images such as that of a goose parading around a farm or a pig wallowing in the mud. The scowl that suddenly lit upon the Comte's face indicated he wasn't as obtuse as he might appear as to how these musketeers really felt about him.

Abruptly, the Comte turned away and marched in his own fashion over to Captain Treville, who was standing to one side, conversing with some of the other waiting dignitaries. The nobleman barged into the middle of the other men's personal space. "Are those your men, Captain?" he asked, waving a chubby, bejeweled, pasty white hand in the direction of the four soldiers

Treville courteously excused himself from his current conversation and focused his attention on the demanding Comte. "Yes, they are, Monsieur. Finest musketeers in the regiment," he said with honest pride, though there was a small part of the Captain's mind that hoped his 'finest soldiers' hadn't done something stupid, as they were apt to do on occasion.

Rudely pointing his fat finger at d'Artagnan, the Comte demanded, "Are you sure that one on the end is a real musketeer? Surely, he is too immature. I have older cheese in my pantry."

The four compatriots could clearly hear the Comte's sarcastic words. A disapproving frown appeared on d'Artagnan face, Aramis and Porthos snickered in amusement, and Athos started fiddling with the hilt of his sword, as if he was debating on whether to use it. An oblique glower by their Captain had the four almost toeing the line again.

In what he hoped was a soothing, yet authoritative tone, the Captain explained, while d'Artagnan was young he was an excellent solider and that he had no hesitation trusting the lad with his life. The humph that the Comte came forth with indicated he thought the Captain might be selling his life short.

"Well, he doesn't inspire any confidence in me." The Comte crossed his pudgy arms over his chest like a petulant child. Behind the man's back, once again, there was a bit of smirking and poking amongst the musketeers, as they tried to maintain their decorum.

The Captain ignored his men, hoping not to draw any more attention to their behavior, which was rapidly disintegrating. "D'Artagnan trained under the best man in my regiment. He couldn't have had a better education," the Captain empathetically stated. "Athos," the Captain pointed to his lieutenant on the right end of the line, "is the finest swordsman and tactician I have ever come across."

The Comte momentarily focused his attention on Athos, sweeping him from head to toe and obviously found him lacking too. "Do you get about much, Captain? He doesn't look that impressive. A tactician? He appears quite stupid to me."

"The Comte must have known the Comtesse de Larroque. Though I believe her term was mental vacancy," Aramis whispered to his brethren. That elicited an eye roll from Athos and two more snickers from Porthos and d'Artagnan.

The Captain did his best to glare his four musketeers back into submission, but he knew at best he had a fifty/fifty chance that they would behave. "I assure you, Comte, you are safe with these men guarding your person."

"And it will take four of us to guard his entire person," Porthos whispered loudly enough for his brothers to hear, causing more than a few of their lips to curve upwards.

Treville was a perceptive man who knew his troops and was fully aware his men's toes were about to cross over the line again. Hoping to avoid having to apologize humbly to his majesty for the inappropriate actions that his 'finest' musketeers were surely about to display, the Captain tried to divert the Comte away from his sport of musketeer baiting. The Comte was not going to like what he caught if he kept taunting the four brothers-in-arms.

Treville sought about for the closest distraction, his eyes settling on a nearby man. "Have you met Monsieur Baldwin who oversees his majesty outstanding dog pack?"

It was a tactical error on Treville's part, as the Comte dismissed the man and his dogs without even a glance. "Why on earth would I want to meet the man who lords over a bunch of smelly dogs?"

The Comte's eyes settled instead on Porthos and he waddled over to stand in front of the tall, burly musketeer. The dumpy nobleman's eyes narrowed and his mouth puckered as if he were sucking on a lemon as he studied the musketeer. With another humph, he turned and wobbled a few steps away before addressing Treville. "Have you ever closely examined that one? I am sure he is a mongrel, not at all suitable to be a musketeer or guard my person."

Porthos dropped the reins of his horse and lunged towards the arrogant Comte, which caused his three brothers to immediately surge forward to restrain the irate street-fighter. Luckily for the musketeers, the Comte wasn't facing them, so he remained ignorant of the aborted attack, which was taking place behind his back. The horses, though well trained, were not happy with the four musketeers jostling around under their noses and the animals shook their gorgeous flowing manes as they noisily snorted.

By the time the fat man turned around to see what the commotion was, Porthos' arms were discreetly restrained behind his back by d'Artagnan on one side and Athos on the other, while Aramis faced him, nonchalantly brushing imaginary dust off of Porthos' leather doublet.

"Bee," Aramis said over his shoulder to the Comte, being sure to block Porthos' face from the Comte's view. "He is deathly allergic. Upsets him when one buzzes by."

The upset expression on Porthos' face mirrored Aramis' lie, but the cause was not from a bee, but rather from the ass standing behind Aramis.

"All better now," Aramis assured everyone as he gave Porthos a final pat and warning glare. Athos and d'Artagnan gave Porthos' pinned arms a little wrench before releasing them. Then, the four musketeers sedately lined up in front of their horses again.

Behind the Comte's back, Treville ran an exasperated hand through his greying hair as the Inseparables managed to pull themselves back from the brink of disaster. Fortuitously for all concerned, the King finally strolled out of his palace, refocusing everyone's attention on the royal countenance.

"Were you waiting on me?" the King innocently asked with a little laugh. Then he gave a wave of his jewel-encrusted hand and everyone moved to mount their horses. While the King was privileged to use a wooden staircase, all the other parties had to mount from the ground. The four musketeers swiftly swung aboard their horses, then waited for the signal for the hunt to move out.

The Comte, still on the ground, crooked a pudgy finger at Porthos. "You. Servant. Come help me mount."

The clearly affronted Porthos was off his horse in a flash, but Athos was even faster, getting in front of Porthos and standing toe-to-toe with the seething giant. Though there was a few inches difference in their respective heights and more than a few stones in their weight, Athos neatly cowed the larger man into submission by simply using his famous glare.

"I believe there is a bee over there, Porthos," Athos intoned monotonously, though his eyes were flashing warning signs. "I'll help the Comte on his horse."

He gave Porthos a small shove back towards Flip before spinning around and walking to where the Comte stood impatiently by his horse. Just before he reached the paunchy man, Athos stopped for a second, bent over, and adjusted his right boot. "New boots," he explained as he rose and faced the curt Comte.

"I am surprised you can afford new boots," the Comte said snarkily as he turned his back on Athos to face the side of his horse.

"You'd be surprised what I can afford," Athos drily quipped, as he moved behind the man.

The Comte raised his plump foot and calf for Athos to give him a boost.

"Your horse seems quite sturdy," Athos grunted sarcastically, as he did his best to shove the blubbery mass in the air and onto the poor horse's back.

By the time the Comte was settled and could look down disdainfully upon Athos, the musketeer's face was one of pure innocence again. "Let me adjust your stirrup, my Lord."

The Comte preened with delight, clearly liking the form of address Athos had deliberately used, as well as the personal attention. This was how the conceited Comte felt he deserved to be treated.

Athos fiddled with the right, then left stirrup before giving the horse a little pat on his belly and stepping back. After serving up the Comte a small bow, which the man lapped up like a cat at a bowl of cream, Athos walked back to Roger and gracefully swung aboard.

Treville had an uneasy feeling, but before he could maneuver his horse closer to Athos to question the smug man, the King was off and the Captain was obliged to slide into his customary position at his majesty's left flank. Surely, there was no cause for worry, Treville tried to convince his doubting mind. Usually, Athos was the most level-headed of the lot, unless he was drunk, which he was not, or felt the need to right an injustice. That thought stopped the Captain cold in his thought tracks and his stomach did a quick flip-flop. Glancing back over his shoulder, he desperately tried to catch Athos' eye or the eye of any of his fellow conspirators but they all avoided his gaze like the plague. The Captain was forced to refocus his attention to the way ahead lest he run into the King's horse.

Aramis positioned his majestic stallion next to Athos' black mount. "What did you do?" he demanded.

Athos maintained his 'bored Comte face' as he impassively responded. "Nothing." After a few more hoof beats, he added, "That isn't well deserved."

"Are you going to be punished for this 'nothing'?" Aramis inquired lightly, having now confirmed Athos' 'nothing' was 'something'.

D'Artagnan rode up on the far side, sandwiching Athos between him and Aramis. "Punished?" he asked, slightly alarmed.

"It's nothing," Athos reiterated, keeping his eyes focused firmly ahead.

"What's nothing?" Porthos asked, coming up alongside of Aramis so that the four horses were walking abreast.

D'Artagnan eyes darted over to their Captain. "I think Treville is trying to get our attention."

Athos took his foot out of his stirrup and gave the boy's mare a little nudge, causing her to shy and making d'Artagnan drop his gaze for a moment.

"Don't look at the Captain," Athos hissed at the Gascon.

"Why?" a puzzled d'Artagnan asked, as he got his skittering mare under control.

Athos spoke as if he were addressing a small child. "Because you can't be punished for what you don't get caught disobeying. One of my tutors taught me that. Plausible deniability." Athos deliberated for a beat. "I guess I understand why my father fired him. His teachings were a bit radical, though I was certainly fond of the man."

Aramis tried to steer the conversation back on track. "So this 'nothing', will we get punished too? You know, in the spirit of 'one for all'."

"I suppose it depends on how well you school your face," Athos wryly offered.

"In that case, I'm good, but these two," Aramis looked meaningfully at Porthos then d'Artagnan, "are gonna hang right beside you."

"Hanged? Who's getting hanged?" Now it was Porthos' turn to sound alarmed.

With a long suffering sigh, Athos rolled his eyes. "No one is getting hanged." Then there was that contemplative pause again. "Unless he dies." And other pause. "But surely even the King could see the world would be a better place without him."

D'Artagnan, who'd been mulling over the strange conversation in this mind, finally connected the last two dots. "I know what you did!" he triumphantly announced. "The Comte insulted all of us, which was ok, but what he said about Porthos was over the line. You decided he needed to be taught some humility, so you did something when you helped him on his horse."

Athos refused to look at his brethren, suddenly finding the landscape between Roger's ears memorizing.

"On the way to help the Comte onto his horse, you stopped and fiddled with your boot. You palmed that nasty little knife you keep hidden in your right boot!" d'Artagnan accused Athos.

"Aye. I've seen that little dagger," Porthos confirmed. "You actually sewed a little sheath for it in your boot."

"You can sew that well?" Aramis said with doubt. "Because your needlework on me hasn't been that stellar."

Athos gave him a sideways glance. "Next time I'll let you bleed."

"What did you do?" d'Artagnan wondered aloud. "Slit his girth?"

"Slit?" Athos made a rude noise. "No. Nick," he gave an indifferent shrug, "maybe."

"And with his girth, and by that I mean the Comte's blubber, not the leather strap, that might just be enough to tip the scales, so to speak." Aramis smiled evilly at the thought.

"And if that doesn't work, his malfunctioning stirrups might," Athos winged in from under the radar.

"You didn't?" Aramis threw his hands up in mock horror, earning him a pained look from Athos and an annoyed nicker from his stallion, who wasn't amused by having his mouth jerked. Aramis gave his mount an apologetic pat on the neck.

"Let's call it insurance." Athos couldn't keep the corner of his mouth from quirking.

Porthos gave him a big, toothy grin. "You shouldn't have. But I love you for it!"

Athos gave him a small head tilt of acknowledgment. "No one picks on my brothers. Except me, of course."

An unfortunate accident occurred as they were crossing a small and rather muddy stream. Athos happened to be riding alongside of the hefty Comte when Roger took fright, seeing a water snake, as Athos would later claim, and the big, black stallion danced sideways into the Comte's mount. In the ensuing confusion, the Comte's stirrups gave way, followed by his saddle's girth splitting, and suddenly the obese Comte found himself sliding down the side of his horse towards the muddy stream bed.

Athos, being the gentleman that he was, reached over and did everything in his power to try to stem the catastrophic event. But alas, the Comte was too heavy and Athos was forced to let the fat man fall lest Roger be pulled off his hooves and injured. The other three sharp-eyed musketeers may have noticed a scruffy brown-toed boot pressing on the Comte's derrière, assisting his decent, though they would all later deny it to their annoyed Captain. The muddy stream completely soiled the Comte's breeches and hid any tell-tale evidence of Athos' footprint on the Comte's generous rump.

That night, Treville had the musketeers in his office, making his displeasure known, but the four clammed up and no confession was forthcoming. Athos answered every question put to him as if he were sitting in the front pew of church with the Priest on one side and God on the other. Athos didn't flinch and, once again, Treville had to wonder how a person who cherished honor and integrity above all else could lie so easily and so well.

When he was tired of ranting and raving to no avail, the Captain finally told them the Comte was leaving tomorrow and their services as his bodyguard were no longer required.

"What a pity. We were getting along so swimmingly," Athos deadpanned, and the rest of the three chortled.

Athos flicked his eyes from the wall, at which he had been staring for the last thirty minutes, to Treville's face, then back.

That was as close to a confession as he was likely to get from Athos, so the Captain accepted it and dismissed them, already planning a series of unpleasant tasks for Athos and his henchmen. He understood exactly why his lieutenant did what he did: no one made derogatory remarks about his brothers around Athos. They were a brotherhood and proud of it.

However, the Comte could have been seriously hurt and Athos had to pay for his misdeeds, even if a bit indirectly. The Captain knew exactly how to punish his musketeer for his behavior, chuckling as he sat at his desk and prepared the duty roster for the next two weeks. There were a few especially 'choice' assignments coming up and Athos was going to enjoy every single one of them, starting with escorting the dumpy, smelly, lonely, widowed dowager due to visit the Queen tomorrow. The Captain would be sure to order Athos to ride in the small, closed carriage with the widow to ensure her personal safety.

The Captain chuckled, wondering how long Athos' cool demeanor, integrity, and honor would last under her groping onslaught. Athos would have his hands full ensuring his 'honor' remained intact and that his 'sword' was not man-handled under the widow's full frontal attack. She was known to be a tigress who didn't take no for an answer. It would be a worthy battle between the two adversaries, one the Captain wished he could watch. It was even odds whom would come out on top in this blitzkrieg.

The morning after Athos had 'escorted' the widow about Paris, the stoic musketeer showed up for muster disheveled, limping, and sporting a rather impressive black eye. Though he couldn't hear what was being said, Treville could tell by the expression on Athos' face he was being unmercifully tormented by his best friends.

Before he got started with roll call, the Captain walked up to where the injured musketeer stood. "Are you fit for duty, Athos?"

Athos opened his mouth to reply but was quickly over-spoken by Aramis. "Depends on what you define as fit, Captain. He has a nasty black eye, as you can see. But what you can't see are the nasty scratches on his chest." He sidled a glance at Athos. "They need to be cleaned well. Fingernails can harbor a lot of bacteria, I'm told."

"Don't go there," Athos growled menacingly at Aramis.

However, his brother gleefully ignored him and continued on with listing the man's injuries, which were courtesy of his adventures with the widow. "I think he may have fractured a rib or two, though I doubt it was from the widow's tickling. More likely it was caused by his head-long plunge from her carriage, which was totally of his own volition."

"I tripped, exiting her carriage," Athos reasonably explained, which earned him a derisive snort from Porthos.

"Aye, you tripped comin' out her carriage 'cause your breeches were down around your knees. Compliments of the widow," Porthos remarked with a smutty, evil grin.

"It was a simple wardrobe malfunction. The buttons came loose," Athos hastily assured them. "That woman has the hands of a magician," Athos darkly muttered under his breath. "They suddenly appear in the most unlikely places. It was most… vexing."

His comments weren't soft enough that the sharp ears of his brothers didn't catch them. "Aye, she's magical alright," Porthos cynically agreed.

"And he is limping because he twisted his knee," Aramis picked up with his narrative. "As he was serenely exiting the carriage, the widow felt the sudden need to examine the workmanship of his boots. So she grabbed him by the ankle and tried to haul him back into her carriage."

Athos, a man who rarely blushed, was sporting a blossoming red tinge on his pale cheeks. "She wouldn't let go and I thought it would be impolite to kick her in the face."

A pious expression graced Aramis' face as he questioned Treville. "Captain, did you know that the widow is quite… how shall I put this delicately… forward? It was only by the grace of God Athos escaped with his virtue intact. Though he did leave his boot behind, as a rather strange token of affection."

"There was no affection," Athos emphatically informed them. "And there was nothing in the world that could make me get back in that carriage to retrieve my boot. I'd rather go barefoot," Athos fervently added.

The Captain eyed his lieutenant, who wasn't barefooted and either had found a way to retrieve his boot or had switched to a new pair. "It is awful how people can treat each other, isn't it, Athos?" the Captain pointedly asked his bedraggled musketeer.

"If that is a thinly veiled reference to what I did to the obese Comte, it is noted. However, I stand by my actions. The man was a pompous ass and deserved to be taught a lesson. However," Athos continued after noting the Captain's arched eyebrow and displeased scowl, "I suppose could have found a better way to defend our brotherhood." Afraid of what other nasty assignments his Captain had in mind to teach him a lesson, Athos decided it was in his best interest to apologize. He gave a small, proper bow from the waist. "I stand corrected."

As Athos straightened, he answered the Captain's original question. "I would like to be excused from duty today as I'm a bit worn from having to guard the widow."

"You mean, fend off her advances to maintain your honor," d'Artagnan slyly corrected his mentor.

"She was insistent as well as persistent," Athos acknowledged with a tilt of his head and a small smile. "But I'm happy to report my honor remains intact. It was not an easy feat, I assure you."

"Athos, you're off duty for today. Aramis, escort our wounded hero to the infirmary and make sure he takes care of his battle wounds. Porthos, d'Artagnan, back in line," the Captain instructed.

"Captain, don't you think we'd better be excused too? To assist in Athos' recovery?" d'Artagnan calculatingly recommended.

"The widow is still in Paris. Are you volunteering to serve as her personal bodyguard, d'Artagnan? I hear she is not at all particular about the age of her…guards. The Captain looked expectantly at his youngest musketeer, who hastily beat a path back into line.

Having bested the Inseparables, the Captain had a small, smug smile on his face as he handed out the day's assignments to his troops. Overall, they were good men and it made him proud to be part of such a brotherhood. They truly were the best regiment in all of France.

The End


End file.
